


Safe and Warm

by Fernandidilly_yo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (they get lots of hugs), Batdad to the rescue, Batfamily, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Set during each of the boys runs as Robin, These Children all need Hugs, and Cass' run as Batgirl, this is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25431640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernandidilly_yo/pseuds/Fernandidilly_yo
Summary: Five times that Bruce's children crawled into his bed, and one more time after that.
Comments: 46
Kudos: 443





	Safe and Warm

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this over the course of like three days...
> 
> Have some fluff. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

** Safe and Warm  **

**Dick-**

Dick jerks awake abruptly, a cut-off cry for his mom bursting from his mouth. 

It takes the eight-year-old a second to gain his bearings, to remember where he is. It’s always like that after _That_ nightmare, Dick wakes up feeling lost, and so very small.

Dick takes in a shuddering breath and tires to calm himself down, to do that special breathing that Bruce had taught him on other nights like this. On those nights when Dick’s feelings get too big for his body and they need to come out somehow, on those nights where all of his emotions get twisted up and tangled inside of his head, making it hard to think, hard to breathe.

But Dick’s eyes are burning, and his chest is tight, and his lips _won’t stop quivering._

Dick sits up and frantically scrubs at his eyes, trying to make it stop, he just wants it all to _stop._ But everything is bubbling up like a soda-pop ready to explode, and Dick can’t seem to keep himself from crying.

He misses his dad.

He wants his mom.

Dick sniffles and swipes at his nose with his pajama-sleeve, and then he half crawls half flops across the bed, retrieving his stuffed elephant from where she fell, hugging her tightly to his chest.

But even though she tries her best, Zitka’s hugs aren’t as good as the real Zitka’s, and she doesn’t ruffle Dick’s hair like his dad, and she can’t sing like Dick’s mom.

Dick sobs into her soft fur for a while, wishing he could have a real hug, a real person to talk to. That was never a problem before, if Dick had a nightmare then he’d just crawl into bed with his parents, and they would make everything better.

But now they aren’t around anymore, and Dick is alone in this humongous bed, in a room so large their _whole trailer_ could squeeze in here. 

Dick sniffs hard, thinking for a long moment.

He doesn’t want to stay here in this big empty room, he wants someone to hold him, he wants someone to make the bad dreams and the horrible ache in his chest go away. 

Dick slips out of bed, still clutching Zitka as he opens the door as quietly as he can, sneaking on tiptoes down the hallway.

Bruce’s room is right next to Dick’s, but the hallway is still long, it takes him a few seconds to reach Bruce’s door. The air cold against Dick’s damp cheeks and bare toes.

Dick doesn’t knock, just gently pushes open the door with the tips of his fingers. Dick has only been in Bruce’s bedroom a couple of times, in the mornings when Dick and Alfred come to wake Bruce for breakfast, or when Dick helps Bruce get ready for work, picking out Bruce’s tie and socks for him.

But Dick has never been in Bruce’s room at nighttime, when it’s all black and dark, when Bruce is asleep in bed.

Dick uses his Robin training to be quiet and sneaky, but Bruce still stirs when Dick gets near the foot of the bed.

Because while Dick might be Robin, Bruce is _Batman._

“Dick?” Bruce asks, his voice sounds kind of grouchy, but Dick thinks that’s just from sleep.

“…yeah,” Dick whispers, his words a little quivery. He comes up to stand near Bruce’s head where the man can see him, still on his tippy-toes.

“Nightmare?” Bruce asks, his voice drops low, matching Dick’s whisper.

Dick nods, muffles a sniffle into Zitka’s back.

“C’mere, chum,” Bruce says, reaching out for Dick with one arm, helping the boy to scramble onto the bed.

Dick cries a little bit more, into Bruce’s t-shirt instead of Zitka’s fur this time. And then he feels all spent, tired and worn out. So he lets his head lay on Bruce’s chest, his legs thrown out on top of Bruce’s bigger ones.

After a few minutes, when Dick’s eyes are getting heavy and blinky, Bruce gently rolls Dick off of him and slips the boy under the warm covers.

Dick stares at Bruce in confusion for a second before the man says, “I’ll be right back.” Then he quietly climbs out of bed and flicks on a light in his bathroom.

Bruce comes back a second later with a warm, damp, washcloth, and sits on the bed next to Dick, gently dabbing at Dick’s eyes and nose, mopping up snot and tears. 

After a minute Bruce pulls away the cloth, asks, “better?”

Dick nods, tiredly hums, “mm-hm,” into Bruce’s bedding. He feels calmer now, sleepy and a little bit stuffy, but he doesn’t think he’ll have any more nightmares here in Bruce’s room.

When Bruce comes back from washing his hands and throwing the towel in the hamper, he asks, “do you want to go back to your room?”

Dick rapidly shakes his head against the pillows, says, _“no,”_ and that’s that.

But then Bruce does a funny thing.

He goes to the chest at the end of his bed and grabs one of those ‘Afghanistan blankets’ or whatever they’re called, and then Bruce climbs on top of the covers on his bed and lays the extra blanket over himself.

Dick stares at the man with a scrunched nose and a laugh locked in his tummy. “What’re you doing?” Dick asks, trying not to snigger.

Bruce glances over at the eight-year-old, raising an eyebrow at the boy. Dick can tell because Bruce forgot to turn off the bathroom light. Except, Bruce is Batman, and Batman doesn’t forget stuff like that. So maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.

“Why’re you on top?” Dick asks, poking Bruce in the ribs with his toes. “S’not like I have _cooties,_ y’know.”

Bruce’s lips twitch at him, but that’s just how he smiles sometimes. “Oh?” he hums, “well that’s a relief.”

Dick giggles at the man, pokes him lightly again, with his fingers this time.

Dick watches Bruce for a moment, takes in how stiff the man is, how he is lying flat on his back with his hands resting on his stomach, his legs straight. Dick wonders at first, if that’s because Bruce doesn’t want to touch him.

But then Dick thinks about training down in the Cave, how Bruce will poke at Dick’s spine and shoulders to make him straighten his stance. He thinks about when they have someplace important to go, how Bruce will brush and gel Dick’s hair for him. He thinks about patrolling on cold nights, how Bruce will let Dick hide under his cape to keep warm.

Those things are different from cuddling, but not that different. Maybe Bruce just doesn’t know how, maybe no one ever showed him.

That thought makes Dick feel sad for Bruce, so he sets Zitka down gently on a pillow where she’ll be relaxed, and then Dick scoots himself over to Bruce.

Bruce doesn’t say anything as Dick gets settled, kicking at blankets and putting his cold toes against Bruce’s thigh before he lays his head back down on Bruce’s chest.

After Dick gets all comfy, he grabs Bruce’s right-arm and pulls it around himself in a hug, humming a soft sleepy noise to himself, because now they are _perfect,_ nice and cozy.

Dick lets his heavy, itchy eyes close, taps a beat on Bruce’s collarbone, mumbles through a yawn, “it’s okay, you’ll learn.”

Dick falls asleep to the sound of Bruce letting out a hushed laugh.

* * *

**Jason-**

Jason is angry.

The twelve-year-old sits cross-legged and cross-armed on his bed, a human pretzel of madness. But not like the _crazy_ kind of madness, but the other kind, when you’re angry and burning.

And that’s _exactly_ what Jason is, angry and burning.

He stares at the new suit hung up on his closet door, with its dumb vest and stupid bowtie, with its dumb pocket-square and stupid shiny shoes, Jason stares at it in all its dumb-stupid glory.

But it’s not the suits fault that tonight sucked, the reason that tonight absolutely _blew,_ is because Jason had actually been excited about it, had been looking forward to it even, if Jason is bein’ honest.

Because Jason was gonna get to eat fancy Rich People food, and he was gonna see an actual String Quartet Band play. He had been planning to sneak a sip of champagne while Bruce wasn’t looking, and he was supposed to meet some of the kids he’ll be goin’ to school with next year.

But instead, the other few kids Jason had even _seen_ had hidden from him and avoided eye contact with Jason. The adults had somehow been worse. Flat out ignoring Jason or turning up their noses at him, and when they didn’t think Jason was in hearing range, they would whisper about him behind his back.

Jason glares harder at the innocent suit, digs his fingers into his arms until his nails bite into his skin.

It’s the first suit that Jason has ever owned, maybe even the first he’s ever worn. Alfred had helped Jason pick out the style he wanted, and then they had it meticulously fitted to Jason’s size, making sure it didn’t sag or bunch up anywhere, making sure that it wasn’t just ‘a suit’ but that it was ‘Jason’s suit’.

It had looked very nice.

 _Jason_ had looked very nice.

Turns out he was the only one who thought so. To everyone else, Jason was just some street kid playing dress-up with Bruce Wayne’s cash. He was a charity case, he was a cure to ‘empty nest syndrome’, he was a squatter in a rich man’s home, he was a mistake awaiting consequences.

Jason untangles his limbs and stomps off the bed, shutting the closet door so he doesn’t have to see the suit anymore. He slumps against the closed door for a moment, thinking and seething.

Jason wants to stay mad and angry, he wants to keep the fire and heat that come with being pissed off, but Jason mostly just feels hurt and disappointed now.

Which is just, so ridiculous, to let what some stupid socialites said about him get to Jason. He shouldn’t care what anyone else thinks, he shouldn’t give these posh upper-class snobs a second thought. 

But their words are filling up his head and taking away his hot anger and replacing it with something brittle and cold.

Jason absolutely _hates_ it.

Jason wiggles out his fingers from where he had them bunched tightly into fists and stomps over to his bedroom door, taking a breath to calm himself down before he heads out into the hallway.

The Manor is huge in every way- Jason has been living here for over two months, and he still hasn’t explored the entire thing. Not with all the hidden nooks and crannies, all the secret passageways and obscure rooms.

It’s just so darn _big._

So big, that even though Jason is just right across the hall from Bruce, it still takes him a dozen steps to make it from his bedroom to Bruce’s.

There is a line of light under the man’s door, which means B is probably awake, so Jason knocks without really thinking about it.

It is the moment _after_ he has knocked, that Jason’s brain catches up to him and then all Jason can think is, ‘ _what the hell am I **doing!?’**_

But it’s too late to turn back now, because Bruce’s voice calls out softly, “come in Jay,” and that’s it.

Jason pokes his head into the room, shuts the door quietly behind himself.

Bruce is lying on top of his covers, the lamp by his head lit, casting most the room in shadows. He has a book sprawled out on his lap, his finger saving the page for him.

“Hello Jason,” Bruce says, and he does that little smile that wouldn’t be considered a smile on anyone else’s face.

Jason nods, says, “Boss,” in greeting, and sort of drifts to the end of Bruce’s bed, places his hands on the wood before he _squeezes_.

Bruce lets the silence stretch out between them, because awkward silences don’t bother Bruce and he is far too willing to wait them out.

Jason shuffles from foot to foot, looks away from Bruce to the far wall as he mutters, “I don’t…I don’t know why I’m here.”

Bruce shifts on the bed, places his book on the bedside table. “That’s alright,” he says.

Jason looks down at his socked-feet, curling his toes as he clutches the bedframe even harder. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He gets along with Bruce, he likes the man a lot, but Jason hasn’t done something like this before- hasn’t ever felt the urge to search Bruce out in the middle of the night.

Jason pulls in a long breath and wistfully thinks about what it would be like to have a cigarette. Wonders how much trouble he would get in if he snuck one. Because he’d surely be caught- Alfred has the nose of a bloodhound.

Jason steels himself, letting out a puff of air, and then he clambers up onto the foot of Bruce’s bed and crawls up to sit next to the man, defiantly pressing his back against the ridiculously plush pillows.

Jason purses his lips and crosses his arms, not wanting to be the first to break the silence again. But the quiet of the room is starting to get to him, and Bruce is waiting him out. Jason’s patience snaps a moment later and he says, “your Gala-thingy sucked. And _no,_ I don’t want to talk about it.”

Bruce hums beside him, a low sound.

Jason doesn’t think Bruce is going to do anything for a minute, but then the man leans over and wraps his arm around Jason’s shoulders, pulling the boy into his side in a half-hug.

Then Bruce’s head is resting on Jason’s, his breath ruffling Jason’s hair as he breathes out. “You did very well tonight, I hope you know,” he murmurs, “both Alfred and I are very proud with how you conducted yourself. You showed more maturity and restraint than most of the adults.” 

Something warm blooms in Jason’s chest, makes him sort of _melt_ into Bruce’s side. Bruce and Alfred are _proud_ of him, it doesn’t make the bite of tonight’s words go completely away, but it does lessen the sting. 

“You looked real sharp in that tux tonight, Jace,” Bruce says, giving Jason a squeeze. “I was thinking, if you want, that you and I could dress up and go see a symphony.”

Jason instinctively goes to look up at Bruce, but the man’s head is still resting on his hair, so he keeps still as he asks, “a symphony?”

Bruce hums, Jason can feel the vibration of it through his whole left side. “Hm, yes, I’ve gotten us seats for this Saturday. I think you’d enjoy it.”

Jason wiggles down on the bed so he can rest his head on Bruce’s chest, he feels the man run his fingers through his hair an instant later.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of Jason. Because Bruce thinks he looked nice in his suit and Alfred had helped him pick it out, and they’re both _proud_ of Jason. So, it doesn’t matter if other people think he’s playing dress-up, or if they say he doesn’t belong.

Because they aren’t the ones who get to make the rules.

That's Bruce and Jason’s job.

“And then after, can we go get some really greasy burgers and fries?” Jason asks, already imagining himself and Bruce sat at a corner booth in their tuxes while they drink $3.00 milkshakes.

Bruce squeezes Jason again, pressing him more firmly to his chest. “As long as you don’t tell Alfred, then I don’t see why not.”

Jason snickers and closes his eyes, looking forward to Saturday.

* * *

**Tim-**

The room is cold.

Tim wakes up shivering. Which he thinks is kind of ridiculous, considering the vast collection of afghans that he has slowly and meticulously been pilfering from all corners of the Manor to make himself a nest.

But even covered in pillows and blankets Tim still feels frozen, hollowed out, like his bones are made of ice, one wrong move and he’ll shatter, fall apart all over the floor.

It has left the thirteen-year-old shaky and short of breath. Sitting up in a foreign bed in a room that does not belong to him, surrounded by other people’s things and another family’s home.

Tim feels cold.

That isn’t necessarily an unusual feeling for Tim, but this time is different. Because mom is dead and dad might never wake up and Tim is in another man’s house in another boy’s bed, and he does not belong here.

Tim swallows against the emotions pressing against his sternum, clawing their way up his throat, trying to leak out his eyes. He shoves them all back down where they need to stay, buried and quiet, left to fester because Tim doesn’t know what else to do with them.

Tim slides out of bed and lets the chill of the room sap what little heat he was able to generate. His toes curling against hardwood and his shoulders curling inward.

Tim grabs a soft afghan from the top of his blanket pile and wraps it around himself like a cape. It’s funny that he can somehow still feel like a little kid in dress-up when he now wears the real thing.

He creeps out of the cold empty room because Tim can’t stand to be in there any longer, can’t stare at the walls and ceiling thinking about all the things he cannot change.

Tim does his best to dance around the noisy floorboards and the rickety spots, but he hasn’t been in the Manor long enough to have all the spots memorized yet.

Back in his own house, Tim was a master navigator. He could drift and move and glide through the old Mansion without making a sound.

Children are meant to be seen, not heard.

But Tim had been neither; and he had learned very quickly how to blend into the woodwork, how to tiptoe around his own house like he was an unwelcome ghost.

Tim has not learned all the footfalls in this mansion, yet. But he will eventually, he’s quick, has always been a master at hiding in plain sight, it won’t take long.

Except.

Except for the fact that Tim’s feet have betrayed him, have led him down the hall to Bruce’s room.

Tim falters, frozen in the dark hallway, his feet glued to the spot.

Because, if the feelings of wrongness, of being out of place, of not belonging here- could leave Tim this chilled and freezing in a guest room, then he would surely die of frostbite in Bruce’s bedroom.

This is not Tim’s place, he is not Bruce’s child. He is not a child at all, because children do not raise themselves in an empty home, and children do not run through the streets fighting criminals, and children do not bury their mother and mourn for their undead father.

Tim is not a child.

But he feels like one. Standing here in the dark of the hallway, bare feet curled under too large pajama pants, a blanket draped over his shoulders, his hair drooping into his face.

Tim feels very much like a child. 

And Tim thinks about leaving, about going back to a room that is not his or to a hidey-hole where only Alfred would find him, but his feet are rooted to the ground and his fingers are clutching to the blanket so hard they are quaking.

He thinks about knocking, and that somehow is even worse than standing out here all night, cold and alone, and having no idea how he got here in the first place.

But then the door is creaking open and Tim is jerking back, fight or flight making him lose his blanket, lose his nerve, lose his footing.

Bruce cracks the door open and leans part of his weight against the frame, looking worn and tired.

And Tim is sorry, he is so sorry, because he knows he is partially at fault for that expression on Bruce’s face.

“Tim,” Bruce says, and it’s not his normal voice or even his Batman voice, it’s that one that is somewhere in-between, the voice that only Robins’ are allowed to hear.

His real voice, Tim thinks, he is hearing B’s real voice.

Bruce is stepping forward, leaning down to grab Tim’s stolen afghan. He wraps it back around Tim, and then he grips the top corners and gives a little tug on the fabric, pulling Tim forward an inch.

“C’mon,” Bruce says, still in that voice, the one that is for rare occasions and hard nights, for those times that Tim has done well or when Bruce needs to truly be heard.

Tim feels off balance and slightly guilty when he enters Bruce’s room, he has never set foot in here before, wouldn’t have dared.

Tim remembers going into his parents’ room once, remembers how his mother had sat him down and explained that a mother and father’s room is off-limits to children, how they needed a space that was just for them and only them. He remembers how he had agreed but not understood, because how could his mom and dad need their own special place away from him when the whole world was already their escape from children.

From Tim.

Bruce leads the thirteen-year-old into the darkened bedroom, shutting the door behind them with a quiet ‘snick’, and then he gently tugs on the blanket, pulling Tim along until they reach the bed.

Tim stares down at the mattress, and then he glances up at Bruce, his features cast in shadows from the rays of the moon. “I’m sorry,” Tim says, his voice thready. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve…I shouldn’t be here. I should— I should go.”

Tim takes a faltering step, his heart hammering in his chest. But Bruce still has the ends of the blanket and Tim is still wrapped up in it. He suddenly feels like a fish caught in a net, unable to move, trapped with nowhere to go, floundering and choking on air. 

“You’re alright,” Bruce says, his voice hushed. He crouches down so he can catch Tim’s eye. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he says in an almost-whisper. “I invited you in.”

When Tim decided to become Robin, he had never imagined that Batman could have such moments of softness. He’s still not used to seeing them, of being on the receiving end of them. It leaves Tim feeling off-kilter and unbalanced.

He swallows thickly, lost for words.

Bruce makes a soft ‘hn’ noise in the back of his throat and then he’s crawling across the covers, Tim’s afghan still clutched between his fingers. “When was the last time you slept, Tim?” he asks, pulling on the blanket until Tim is forced to clamber up onto the bed or faceplant.

Tim wobbles on his legs without the use of his arms, his knees sinking into the mattress as his toes get tangled in Bruce’s bedding. Tim feels clumsy and wrong-footed here, like he stepped into another reality when he entered this bedroom, and everything is a few degrees off its regular axis.

“Tim?” Bruce asks, because Tim still hasn’t answered his question. 

“I— I don’t know,” Tim says.

Bruce hums again, this one sounding unsurprised. “Alright,” he says, “let’s see if we can manage some sleep, hm?”

Tim doesn’t know what to do, what to say. But that seems to be okay, because Tim is still a fish caught in a net, and Bruce is taking the lead. He pulls Tim toward the head of the bed, toward the stacks of pillows and the warmth of more blankets, toward himself, and Tim doesn’t fight it.

Tim ends up with his head squished into a pillow that smells of Bruce’s shampoo, his body tucked under the thick duvet, still wrapped up in his stolen afghan, watching as Bruce slides under the covers next to him. 

Tim lays there motionless for a moment, trying to breathe around the startling feeling of _safety_ , the unexpected feelings of protection and warmth that wrap themselves around his ribs and nestle themselves between Tim’s lungs.

This doesn’t belong to Tim, not these feelings, not this house, not this moment, not this father laying across from him.

They are not Tim’s.

But maybe they could be.

“You’ll be alright,” Bruce whispers to him, his hand coming up to pet Tim’s wild hair down. “Try to sleep.”

Tim nods, closing his eyes with the feelings of warmth and safety spreading along his skin. 

* * *

**Cass-**

There is wet outside and roaring in the sky, flashes like fire but sharper and clouds that look like anger and sadness.

Cassandra has been watching the storm through the bedroom window, but she pushes it open now, letting the goosebump wind and the teardrop rain into her borrowed room.

The storm plays with her hair and gets in her eyes and Cass breathes it in deep, all the way down until she can’t breathe anymore.

Another sharp fire lights up the sky and then the Manor is shaking as the sky screams from above her. Cass’s ears are like a bell, she rubs at them to make it stop.

There can be no dreaming when the sky is screaming so loud, so Cass leaves her room in search of others. 

The hall is dark black, the storm took away the hum in the walls and so Cass already knew there would be no lights. This does not bother her, she can be like darkness, like shadows, she has had much practice at this, but there doesn’t need to be any hiding, Cassandra isn’t a secret here. 

The hallway is cold-chill on Cass’s toes and soft-quiet on her ears. Cass wanders the halls and listens to the crying sky, and when she sees a swaying light, she follows it.

It is Alfred, in his clothes meant for no one to see, with soft no-click shoes and a funny-droopy hat, he is holding a tiny fire in his hand and he makes surprised but not scared noise when he sees her.

“Miss Cassandra,” he says, “are you all right?”

Cass balls her hand into a fist, moves it up and down. “Yes,” this means, without having to use her voice. She points to the ceiling next, says, “storm,” aloud this time, because she likes the way ‘T’ feels on her tongue.

“Ah,” Alfred hums, “we seem to be in the worst of it. I hope it doesn’t claim any of our trees.”

Cassandra isn’t sure exactly what this means, but she can guess. “Not…sleep?” she asks him.

“Just seeing to a few things,” Alfred says, there is tired in his shoulders, but there is also adventure in his legs, Cassandra sees these things and understands. “I think I’ll wait out the rest of the storm in my room, that is, if you don’t require anything?”

Cass smiles, shaking her head. She does not need things, she is here to listen to the song of the sky and dance through the dark. She is glad she found Alfred, now she knows he is also listening to the storm instead of hiding from it.

“I…walk you?” she asks, using her mouth and hands.

“Of course,” Alfred says, smiles soft like slipping warm mittens over fingers or tasting rose-flowers in the air.

Cassandra walks with Alfred to his room, he tries to gift her the baby fire at the door, but Cass says, “no, thank you,” with her hands. She does not need the little fire, she likes being one of the shadows.

They say goodnight, but not goodsleep, because neither of them are going to hide in blankets and pillows when outside is howling wind and flashing lights.

Cass leaves Alfred and his tiny fire and goes in search of Bruce.

Cass is supposed to knock before going into other people’s bedrooms, Barbara has taught her this, but there is no sleep tonight and he will know she is coming.

Cassandra opens the door as the room is filled with sharp light, it is the colors of blue and white, of icy water and cold snow, the opposite of Alfred’s baby fire. It screams a moment later, and Cass feels its cry in her chest.

“Cassandra,” Bruce says as she slips into the room.

He is standing at the window, watching. Cass comes to stand next to him, watching too. But Cass is not watching the storm, she is watching Bruce.

His hands are hanging open in relief, his head held with enchantment, his shoulders drooping with empathy, his knees locked in resignation.

Cass sees all these things, even if she does not have the words for them. And Cass understands, because Bruce is like this storm inside himself. He can be sharp fire and teardrop rain, he can be slapping wind and roaring noise so loud it hurts everyone around him, including himself.

She understands because sometimes she is like this storm too.

But they are not just angry storms.

Bruce and Barbara are the ones who have taught Cassandra this, that sometimes people hold storms inside themselves, but that doesn’t mean that is all they are. They have shown her that you can be a storm, but you can still be a person too.

Cass hums and reaches for his hand, because she wants, and Cass is allowed to want. 

He squeezes her fingers, not to hurt, but to say ‘hello, I am here’, without using his voice. 

So Cass squeezes his bigger hand, her fingers whispering, ‘yes, and I am glad you are here’ in reply.

“Hm,” Bruce says, because he understands Cassandra even when she isn’t using her words.

They stand together for many ticks of the clock, Cassandra’s chest rises and falls in a copy of Bruce’s own chest. Their hands are warm in each other’s, even though the rest of them is shiver-cold. The storm is angry and loud outside, but getting far away now. 

Cass points to the sharp fire in the sky, asks, “name?” because she knows it must have one.

“Lightning,” Bruce says, slipping his hand from her’s so he can show Cass how to say it with her own hands. He holds his left hand up by his chest, one finger pointed on each hand, his right making a squiggle down from his left.

Cass copies his movements with her own hands. It makes sense, it’s like her right hand is painting a picture, making its own lightning shape. She will remember this easily. “Light-neen,” she repeats, she will practice this new word more, later.

Bruce nods at her, his lips are pursed-proud, his eyes are soft-fond.

“The loud noise after the lightning is called ‘thunder’,” he tells her now. Showing her this sign also. He points to his right ear with his right hand, and then he makes fists with both hands and shakes his arms by his chest.

Cass does this also, laughing under her breath. This is a good set, she thinks, doing ‘lightning’ and ‘thunder’ one after the other. She likes these new words, they match the sharp light and loud roar very well.

“Light-neen, thun-der,” she says again, smiling up at Bruce.

The storm is running away from them, less loud and not as bright. Cass watches it as Bruce makes a fire in the room. It is like Alfred’s baby fire, but bigger, orange and yellow, like warm sunshine and hot tea.

Cassandra turns away from the window and rain and sits on Bruce’s bed. It is soft Alfred sheets and sweet Bruce shampoo. It is thick-heavy warm and big-comfy rest.

Cass crawls under the covers and then beckons Bruce away from the fire. Patting the bed next to her as she snuggles down into her stolen pillow.

Bruce laughs at Cassandra, but silently, with his eyes and his fingers. Cass laughs with him as he gets under the sheets, but with noise, with her mouth and voice and her whole body.

They lay there together in warm blankets, watching the sharp blue lighting in the sky and the soft orange fire across the room. Listening to the loud thunder and their own quiet breathing.

They are storms, the both of them, but they are people too.

Cass very much likes getting to be both.

* * *

**Damian-**

The knife in his hand provides Damian with little comfort.

He could of course disembowel someone with a spoon if he wished to. A knife in the hands of Damian Wayne is far more lethal than a gun in the hands of any meager man.

Even so, Damian still feels ill-equipped.

He finds himself feeling…anxious. He had an encounter with Crane tonight, it was mostly inconsequential, as all confrontations with the mad-man usually are.

This time, however, Damian had gotten a full dose of the doctor’s latest batch of fear toxin.

Damian has had many unpleasant experiences, most milestones within his eleven years have been preceded by their own forms of trial and tribulation.

Damian was groomed from birth to become Ra’s al Ghul predecessor, he was raised up in blood and pain, be it his own or someone else’s.

Damian is not a child, he understands the horrors of the world and he has vowed to live his life amongst them. Though, now he has vowed to fight against them rather than cause them.

He has no reason to fear. 

His time trapped within his own mind has disproportionately affected him. He knows this, has acknowledged this. 

That does not stop the tremors in his hands, it does not keep the visions from replaying before his eye, it does not disrupt the whispers he hears coming from the shadows.

Damian has done four thorough sweeps of his bedroom. He has not discovered any foreign devices, he has not found any signs of tampering or subterfuge.

There is no test; there are no ninjas lurking in the dark, anticipating the moment Damian will drop his guard. There are no assassins under the bed, waiting to strike the instant Damian falls asleep.

Damian does not have to prove his worth here, because he is out of his mother’s reach and his grandfather is not watching his every move.

Still, Damian cannot rest, not with the anxious feeling of bugs crawling under his skin. With the sound of Grayson’s screams echoing in his ears. With the twisted version of his mother’s voice whispering deadly promises.

Damian shudders where he stands in the middle of the bedroom. Titus makes a low whining noise at Damian’s left and the boy absently pets behind the dog’s ears. Damian may feel uneasy, but he does not wish for Titus to feel the same.

“Good boy,” he tells the Great Dane, his voice raspy.

Damian forces himself to take a deep breath before he lets it out slowly, trying to calm his racing heart.

He knows that what he experienced tonight was just a byproduct of Crane’s chemicals, that what he saw was not real, a drug-induced hallucination.

But he can’t stop picturing Grayson pale and wheezing, voice choked and cracking, blood turning the blue symbol on his chest into a dark brown.

Damian’s next exhale is unsteady, quivering from his lips. He stalks over to his bedside table and roughly pulls his phone from the charger with numb fingers.

Grayson picks up on the third ring, his voice is distinctly drowsy. “Dami?” he asks, the word garbled.

“Grayson,” Damian replies.

“What’s wrong?” Grayson asks, sounding far less asleep. “Are you okay?”

Damian’s eyes well up against his will, he squeezes them shut and grits his teeth through the swell of _longing_ building up in his chest. He misses Grayson, misses their time together, when it had just been the two of them.

Batman and Robin, partners, _brothers._

Damian is grateful for his father’s return. He now has the chance to learn from The Batman himself, he has the privilege to work alongside the man who has won his grandfather’s regard.

But Damian does not understand his father, and father does not seem to understand him.

It has already been a month and a half into their new partnership, and still, Damian feels as if he is being forced to earn Batman’s trust. As if he does not deserve his place at the man’s side.

“Damian?” Grayson asks again, worry in his voice now. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Damian pulls in a harsh breath and clutches the phone so tightly it creaks. “I am not _sweet,”_ he spits. It is an insult to insinuate such a thing, Damian was bred for pain and war, he is not _sweet._

“Okay,” Grayson says easily. There is the rustle of fabric over the receiver, Grayson shifting on his bed. “So why the late-night phone call, kiddo? Not that I’m complaining, just curious.”

Damian sucks in a breath and says, “we had an encounter with Crane, tonight.” He closes his eyes, holds onto his knife tight enough for it to dig into his palm. “I…found myself needing to—to know your whereabouts.” 

“Oh, Lil D,” Grayson says, voice soft and sad. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to come up there? I can be in the car in ten minutes.”

It’s tempting, Damian thinks about having Grayson back, with his bright smiles and horrid singing and incessant chatter. He thinks about the hug he would receive on Grayson’s return, how Damian, maybe, just this once, would let himself sink into it.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” Damian says instead.

Grayson is quiet for a long moment, Damian can hear him breathing over the line, soft and even. “Alright,” he sighs, “but I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Alright,” Damian answers.

“Okay,” Grayson goes on, “follow these instructions exactly, okay?”

“Grayson—” Damian starts, but Grayson cuts him off.

“These exact instructions,” he repeats himself, some of the former Batman hardening his tone. “I need you to go out into the hall,” he pauses, Damian does not move. “Are you in the hall?”

Damian sways indecisively for a moment before he goes to his door and steps out into the darkened hallway. “Yes,” he mutters into the receiver. 

“Good,” Grayson says, “now walk over to Bruce’s door.”

Damian stands stock still, the Manor is silent around him, the darkness is its own weight, encompassing and heavy in equal measure. Titus nudges the back of Damian’s knee at the same time Grayson says, “c’mon Dami, just a few steps.”

Damian swallows and starts walking, phone pressed to his ear, knife still clutched in his other hand.

He is three steps away from his father’s door when it unexpectedly opens. Damian stands frozen in the hall as his father appears before him, barefoot and dressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. 

“Damian,” he says.

“Father,” Damian replies, shaking and unsure.

Father takes a careful step forward, says, “may I have the knife, Damian?” Damian looks down at the knife clutched in his trembling hand, it takes effort to pry each of his fingers off, to hand it to father.

“Thank you,” father whispers as he pockets the knife. He leans down then, broadcasting his movements, he’s deliberately slow as he places a warm hand on Damian’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze.

He pulls Damian into the room, waiting for Titus to trail in, and then he clicks the door shut behind the three of them, bathing them in an even denser darkness.

Damian stands stiff and still, his throat clogged up, and his vision wavering. 

Father reaches for the phone still clutched in Damian’s hand, the phone with Grayson on the other side, the phone that Damian had forgotten he was still holding.

Father slips it from Damian’s fingers and presses it to his own ear. “Thank you, Dick,” he says softly, “I’ll take it from here.”

He pockets the phone with the knife and pulls Damian along, toward the bed. Damian goes willingly, not exactly sure what’s happening, but finding himself reluctant to ask.

Father lifts the thick duvet and slides under the covers, and then he is taking Damian’s hand and drawing him under the sheets as well.

The bed is still warm from where his father had slept, it smells of Pennyworth’s laundry detergent and father’s cologne. These fragrances are not as comforting as Grayson’s aftershave or his brand of shampoo, but Damian finds himself settling nonetheless.

Father tucks the blankets around them and lets Titus curl up at their feet, and this time the silence does not try to choke Damian, the shadows do not whisper threats of pain and promises of violence.

Father places a hand back on Damian’s shoulder, rubs his thumb over the hollow above Damian’s collarbone. “I’ll keep you safe, Damian,” he says. 

Damian lets his eyes slip shut, breathing out a sigh. “I know,” he responds. Because Damian may have many doubts, but in this, he has never had reason to doubt his father.

* * *

**Bruce-**

A quarrel with Freeze has left Bruce with slight frostbite, a mild case of hypothermia, tinnitus in his left ear, and oddly enough, minor smoke inhalation.

None of these things are overly worrying. Bruce has seen his fair share of injuries, has dealt with much worse over the years. These types of wounds are more of a hindrance than anything else.

Bruce will be fine.

Bruce is always fine.

The problem, however, is that his systems were compromised in the confrontation by a high-powered EMP, not even Oracle could reach him. This meant that when the building had collapsed due to structural damage, no one knew if Batman had escaped in time.

When Bruce had finally clambered into the Batmobile and logged into his communicator the line had been filled with panicked chatter, voices overlapping with frantic fear.

Robin had been patrolling with Nightwing across the city. Red Hood and Batgirl had both taken the night off. Black Bat was accompanying Red Robin for the evening.

Which meant no one had had eyes on Batman, and so, for seventeen minutes and forty-eight seconds, they were left to their worry.

By the time Bruce had gotten into the car and assured everyone he was alive, Cassandra and Tim were already at his location. The two of them having grappled at breakneck-speed across Gotham to reach him.

Cassandra had slipped silently into the Batmobile as both Dick and Bruce were trying to calm Damian down- it had only been the consensus that Dick and Damian would meet Bruce at the Cave, that had finally placated the thirteen-year-old.

Tim had been there moments after his sister, pale-faced and breathing heavily. He had climbed into the backseat as Cassandra clambered out of the car, headed for the driver’s door as she announced, “I drive.”

Bruce switched seats without a word.

Alfred had tended to Bruce’s wounds with little fanfare, quick and efficient, and somehow admonishing with nothing but a quirk of an eyebrow and a tsk of his teeth.

The children hadn’t left Bruce’s side until Alfred was finished. The four of them silent and watchful until Alfred shooed them to get cleaned up and banished Bruce upstairs, where he was to stay in bed for the next two days. 

That is where Bruce is now, wrapped in bandages and sheets, waiting.

The first to slip into his bedroom is, unsurprisingly, Cassandra. She’s dressed in her favorite yellow sweater-dress and knee-high socks with cats at the top. Her hair is damp and dripping from a recent shower, and she’s holding two steaming mugs in both hands.

She reaches the foot of the bed and promptly jumps up onto the mattress, hardly jostling Bruce, not spilling a drop of the drinks she’s holding.

She walks over to Bruce, handing a mug down to him before she sits cross-legged in front of him on the bed.

She takes a moment to blow on her drink before speaking, “cinnamon tea,” she says, “warm.”

Bruce nods and takes a sip of his own tea, flicking his eyes up to hers in thanks.

Bruce lets the silence stretch out between them, because with Cass there is no such thing as true silence, and words are not necessary for them to speak.

Bruce waits until she is ready.

The room is quiet and serene around them, their tea is almost gone when Cass finally breaks the silence. “I was…afraid,” she says, “tonight. For you. For them…For myself.”

Bruce nods but does not interrupt. Cassandra has words now, and she knows how to use them, but she still takes her time picking them out and lining them up.

“I do not like being afraid,” she goes on, with her voice and her hands. “But I am… _thankful_ to have a baba to be afraid for.”

She leans forward and places her fingers along Bruce’s jaw, where he knows a bruise is fresh and blooming. She drags her hand down and rests it over his heart, leaves it there for a moment.

“I am glad you only have little hurts,” she whispers after a long minute. She smiles up at him, her eyes twinkling and soft.

Bruce reaches out to her, cupping the back of Cass’s head to gently draw her forward. He kisses her hairline before resting his forehead against her’s. Bruce closes his eyes and just breathes with her for a moment, so very thankful that they found each other.

The bedroom door clicks open an instant later, and Bruce pulls away at the sound of a light knock on the doorframe.

“Come in, Dick,” Bruce calls at the same time Cassandra gathers their mugs and slides off of the mattress.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Dick says, voice guilty. His eyes track Cass as she slips past him, leaving as silently as she came.

“She’ll be back,” Bruce says, because he knows she will.

“Okay…” Dick trails off, fidgeting uncertainly at the threshold of the room, eyes downcast, not looking at Bruce.

“C’mere, chum,” Bruce beckons, and that’s all the permission he needs. Dick is across the room and kneeling next to Bruce in an instant.

His knees sink into the bed as he circles his arms around Bruce’s shoulders, his frame shaking ever so slightly.

It will never cease to astound Bruce, the way that Dick can hug so intensely, cling so unabashedly, and still somehow never prod open wounds or touch bruised skin. How he can hold onto you with all that he’s worth- and still somehow be so gentle.

But Dick has always been better at these things than Bruce.

“We’re okay,” Bruce whispers to him, running a hand up and down Dick’s back, trailing his fingers up into Dick’s dark hair.

Dick shudders against him, a wet desperate sound slipping from his mouth. “I know,” he says, “I know it was a false alarm, that nothing—nothing even _happened._ But _God,_ Bruce.”

Bruce squeezes him once in a show of support, of understanding. “You’re alright,” Bruce tells him.

Dick gives a tearful laugh against his shoulder. “I’m not upset about _me,”_ he says indignantly.

“I’m fine,” Bruce amends, patting Dick’s back. “I’m alright.”

Bruce watches over Dick’s shoulder as his door reopens, Cass has come back, a pillow held against her chest, her softest blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.

And trailing behind her, is Damian.

The boy is standing stiff and at attention in the doorway, Titus, the ever-loyal dog, is stood at Damian’s hip. His hands are fisted at his sides and his lips pursed tightly, he pauses when he sees Dick clutching to Bruce, something flickering across his face.

Cass nudges Damian forward and the boy rigidly approaches the bed, walking straight up to Bruce and looking him in the eye.

“Father,” he nods.

“Damian,” Bruce nods back. 

“Oh my god,” Dick says, pulling away from Bruce and swiping at his eyes. “You two are so emotionally constipated. Stop being weird and just hug already.”

“Tt,” Damian starts, sneering at Dick. “I’ll have you know, Grayson, that not ev—”

Bruce interrupts whatever insult Damian was revving up to give. He tugs the boy forward by his shoulder and gives him a very careful hug, pulling Damian toward his chest.

Damian splutters against him for a moment, seeming utterly surprised and faintly disgruntled. But then he hides his face in Bruce’s shirt and wraps his arms around Bruce the best he can.

So Bruce rests his cheek on top of Damian’s head and waits until Damian is ready to let go.

It’s about a half-hour later that Alfred comes in and promptly turns off Bruce’s lamp, closes his curtains, and gives Bruce a _look_ that means he should be asleep very soon or face the consequences.

Alfred does not, however, send the kids away.

Dick and Cass end up on his couch near the fireplace, huddled together over the glowing screen of Cassandra’s Nintendo Switch, muttering things to each other under their breath.

Dick passes out after about twenty minutes and Bruce watches fondly as Cass tucks an extra afghan around the slumbering twenty-five-year-old. She then gathers her things and takes possession of the plush reading chair in the corner.

Damian is wrapped around Titus at the foot of the bed, earbuds stuck in and appearing to be sleeping soundly. Bruce thinks about throwing a blanket over him, but Damian is in a hoodie and flannel pajama pants, and any movement on the bed would surely wake him, so Bruce leaves him be for now.

* * *

Bruce isn’t sure exactly when he dozed off, but he wakes up when he feels a shift in the room.

Not much has changed, Bruce can just make out the murmur of music coming from Damian’s earbuds at the foot of the bed, the sound of Dick lightly snoring from across the room, the rustle of Cass in her blanket nest.

The darkness is absolute and unmoving.

Bruce immediately knows what roused him. “Tim,” he whispers, and the darkness takes a breath.

“Sorry,” Tim whispers back, edging forward so Bruce can hear him. “I was…I was just checking on— I’ll, uh, I’ll go.”

Bruce sits up just enough to snatch Tim’s wrist out of the air as the boy tries to turn around, planning to sneak out the same way he had snuck in.

“Tim,” Bruce repeats quietly, giving Tim’s arm a soft tug.

This is how it has always been on those rare occasions that Tim has ventured over the imaginary boundary of Bruce’s bedroom.

He acts as if he is a thief, caught in the act of stealing, and Bruce will have to show him again, that it cannot possibly be considered stealing when it already belongs to him.

Tim stands motionless, his arm slack in Bruce’s palm. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, Bruce isn’t sure if he’s even breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says again, voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Hm,” Bruce hums at him, taking a moment to study this young man in front of him. So very grown up in some ways, and still so very young in others.

Bruce rubs his thumb over the too apparent knob of Tim’s wrist, his skin is cold and goosebump ridden under Bruce’s hand. Bruce imagines Tim wandering the halls of the Manor, too anxious to sleep, but not quite desperate enough to search Bruce out in his bedroom.

The image leaves Bruce feeling both very fond and very sad.

“Bedtime,” Bruce mumbles now. He begins to quietly scoot over, making room for Tim at his left side. Not daring to release his grip on the boy, because Bruce knows the moment he does, Tim will pull away, and Bruce won’t be able to snatch him back.

Bruce doesn’t give him the option, because Tim will feel obligated to take it once it is presented.

Bruce pulls back the covers enough for Tim to slip in, and then he tugs on the limp arm still hanging from his grasp, the action demanding in all of its gentleness.

Tim hesitates a moment, and then he’s crawling in next to Bruce. Curling up to make himself smaller and tucking his head against Bruce’s pillows.

They don’t say anything more, they lay there all but motionless, except for the point of contact where Bruce continues to rub his thumb over the bone of Tim’s wrist.

Bruce falls asleep with Tim’s arm still in his hand, the feeling of Cassandra’s eyes watching them from across the room, and the sound of Damian dreamily mumbling in Arabic at Bruce’s feet.

* * *

Pale sunlight is just peeking into the room, the smell of damp grass and the sound of morning birds is what wakes Bruce. One of his windows has been thrown open, Bruce watches as a lone figure climbs through it.

Jason is silent as he crawls into the room, dressed in dark jeans and a faded leather jacket. He’s already holding his boots, which means he must have slipped them off outside on the terrace.

Bruce sits up in bed just enough to let Jason know he is awake, but not enough to dislodge Tim or disturb Damian.

Jason sets his shoes on the floor and discards his jacket next to them, and then he sits down on Bruce’s right side, his back resting against the headboard.

Bruce does not speak first, because this is how it has always been with Jason. If Bruce is patient and does not prod the boy, if he doesn’t push and waits until Jason is ready, then Jason will eventually speak.

“I was on the comms,” Jason says after a long while, his voice low and strained. “I was bored, decided to listen in.” He stops, takes a breath. “No one knew I was there. But I was listenin'.”

Bruce shifts on the bed but doesn’t speak.

Jason gives an irritated huff, crosses his arms over his broad chest. “No one gets to kill ya except _me,_ got it B?” he says, and though he’s going for nonchalant Bruce can see the way he’s gripping his left wrist so hard his fingers are shaking.

“Alright,” Bruce agrees, leaning over to place a tentative hand on Jason’s arm.

 _“Good,”_ Jason says, and suddenly, he’s leaning over to grip Bruce’s shoulders in a quick, rough, hug.

He lets go before Bruce can wrap his own arms around him in return.

They sit in silence for some time, until Jason slides down, crosses his legs at the ankles, situates a pillow under his head, and says, “it’s too early ta be awake,” and promptly closes his eyes.

Bruce watches him for a moment and can’t help but feel breathless at the sight of it, Jason by his side, alive and breathing and whole. Bruce doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the privilege of being allowed to see Jason grown up.

Jason is out in a manner of minutes, but Bruce does not follow him into sleep, not yet. Because Bruce is taking in this moment, savoring it and tucking it away somewhere deep in his chest.

This moment, where Cassandra is curled up in her chair across the room. A pile of blankets tucked in around her, her face lit from the screen of her videogame.

This moment, where Dick is half sprawled off the couch, one leg hanging down to the floor, his arms spread out above his head, blanket tangled around his waist.

This moment, where Tim has stretched out next to Bruce, his face smooshed into Bruce's side, one hand bunched up in Bruce’s t-shirt.

This moment, where Damian has moved in his sleep and is now using Tim’s feet as a makeshift pillow, even as he still hugs his Great Dane to his chest.

This moment, where Jason traveled across Gotham in the early morning to make sure Bruce is okay.

This moment, where Bruce’s bedroom is filled with the soft breathing of his children, where he can see them and know that they are all safe and warm in the Manor.

Bruce takes in this moment for all that it is worth, and when he knows he has memorized every facet of it, he lets himself fall back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I didn't make Bruce so soft that he seemed out of character. I could have made this more angsty, but I was craving fluff, so, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed. (◕‿◕✿)


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